


Heat Daze

by OnABadBet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, Scenting, Sweat, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 02:16:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnABadBet/pseuds/OnABadBet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sweaty and heat-dazed as he is, all of his negligible focus on the road, it takes him awhile to pick up on it, but he finally realizes that his skin isn't prickling uncomfortably from the sweat alone. When he glances over, he finds Benny sitting stiffly in the seat beside him, face turned forward but eyes locked on Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat Daze

Summer rolls in on a slow wave of heat that leaves Sam eternally sweating through every piece of clothing he owns, alternately sliding unsteadily across and sticking uncomfortably to the sun-scorched seats of the Impala.

Every year, he fights it for the first few days, same way he has since he can remember: sleeves rolled up and collars tugged down to catch what little breeze he can -- and, failing that, shirts stripped off entirely -- pressing cool water bottles to his neck until those, too, are hot on his skin and cling wetly when he pulls them away. And then, just like every year, he gives up and takes it as best as he can. Leans back and lets the sun warm his skin dark brown. Lets the heat plaster cheap cotton to his body until his skin's been irritated so long he doesn't even notice it anymore, just goes about his day like there aren't sweat-spots spreading darkly under his arms and down his collar, like his hair isn't itching wetly at the back of his neck.

Sam kind of hates the heat, but, well. He's never been able to talk Dean into avoiding the lower half of the country this time of year, no matter how badly Dean inevitably blisters and then darkens approximately two shades into one giant freckle, complaining loudly all the while.

This year isn't anything like an exception to the rule. It's been blisteringly hot, sunny and cloudless, dry and oppressive and completely unavoidable. Sam's hit that state of nirvana where he can't be fucked to try and keep from showing that he's constantly sweating out of his skin; Dean is irritable and peeling, slouching around the bunker with a perpetual stream of complaints lodged in his throat.

Just about the biggest difference this time around is that -- right now, at least -- it's Sam in the Impala's driver seat, hands stuck to the wheel, and Benny riding shotgun while they make a late-evening ice cream (and, for Dean, frozen pie) run.

Sam's been meaning to all day -- between Dean's whining and the fact that he could use the cold pretty damn badly himself -- but Dean wouldn't come with him; when asked, he just gave Sam an incredulous look, held up one sunburned arm, and said, "Like hell am I going back out there. Jesus Christ, I've been flayed once already. Do you see this shit?" It went without saying that Benny wasn't up for it, endless layers of sunblock or no, and frankly, Sam just didn't feel like getting buffeted by that suffocating heat all on his own.

Sweaty and heat-dazed as he is, all of his negligible focus on the road, it takes him awhile to pick up on it, but he finally realizes that his skin isn't prickling uncomfortably from the sweat alone. When he glances over, he finds Benny sitting stiffly in the seat beside him, face turned forward but eyes locked on Sam.

Coming from Benny -- normally all relaxed sprawl and easy, open expressions -- it's pretty damn weird. Sam frowns and opens his mouth, catches himself at the last second about to reach over and nudge at Benny's shoulder with his (kind of gross) hand. He wipes his palm on his jeans instead and asks, somewhat hesitant, "Hey, you okay?"

Some of the tension seems to bleed out of Benny at the question. If it looks a little calculated, like he had to _force_ his shoulders out of that stiff hold, well, Sam's not going to call him on it and make him even more uncomfortable. Not when they've been getting along as well as they have, fitting into a friendship so easy and _good_ it honestly baffles Sam in a way not much else does.

Benny tips him an honest, if slightly terse, smile and Sam's belly swoops warmly. He thinks,  _Probably a heat thing_ , and then, a little derisive, _Right_. He turns back to the road, hand flexing on the steering wheel.

"M'good, Sam. Jus' a bit d'stracted, s'all."

"Yeah?" Sam glances back, angles a strained smile of his own in Benny's direction. "Just checking," he says, and tries to ignore the bead of sweat that rolls from his temple and down his cheek, free from the mess of his hair because he's been restlessly running his hands through it all day and his bangs are slicked untidily back with the rest.

In his periphery, Sam sees Benny tense up all over again. He inhales jerkily and abruptly slides further across the seat -- away from Sam, right up against the door like he'd already be gone if the car weren't in motion.

"Okay, what the hell, Benny?" Sam checks the side mirrors and the rearview -- no one around for him to hit or otherwise bother -- before hastily jerking the car to the shoulder, hitting the brakes hard, and throwing her in park. He shuts the engine off and turns to Benny; he's trying not to get offended, he really is. But there's clearly a problem, and  _seriously_?

Completely unexpected, Benny turns to stare out the window, silent for a second before he finally tilts his head back in a low, shaky laugh. "You sure do sweat a lot, don't you?"

"Um." Sam struggles with that for a minute, trying to work out the relevance, before he realizes in a rush that he's sitting in an enclosed space with a sacrificial ass of a vampire and has been steadily leaking bodily fluid the entire time. "Oh, shit," he says. "Does this -- crap, are you --"

"Hungry?" Benny finishes. He hums low in his throat, and for a second, Sam honestly wants to sink through the seat.

"Fuck," he swears. " _Fuck_ , I'm sorry -- I've always done this, I just -- the fucking heat, I swear to God, no matter how high I crank the air --"

He's reaching for the door handle when Benny's hand closes around his wrist, grip loose and slightly damp from Sam's skin. "You gonna let me talk, Sam?"

"I'm sorry," Sam says again, helplessly. Everything's been fine, and then his stupid fucking body --

"Not hungry," says Benny, and Sam breathes, feels himself relax back into the seat a little. Benny's fingers are still looped around his wrist, and he can focus on it better now, hone in on the slight movement of Benny's thumb petting over his pulse. He lets go of the handle and drops that hand back into his lap; he goes a little limp, in all honesty, slow with the heat and content to let Benny keep that hold until the vampire realizes what he's doing. If Sam doesn't point it out and speed up the process, well. Not hurting anyone.

Sam clears his throat, eyes locked on Benny's fingers curled around his skin, and tamps down the urge to press his wrist up into those slow strokes. "Yeah?" Benny briefly digs his thumbnail into thin skin in a way that makes Sam's breath hitch in his chest, and Sam really, really doesn't know what's going on here. He looks away and keeps his eyes trained out the windshield, still faltering briefly before he manages, "So what's the problem?"

"Your heart's racin'," Benny murmurs instead of answering. "Not scared o' me, Sam?" _Deflecting_ , he thinks -- Benny's deflecting, which, candid as he is, isn't something he does a lot. Sam doesn't really know what to make of it.

He closes his eyes. "No," he says immediately. "No, of course not --"

"So what's the problem?" Benny asks, gently mocking lilt to his voice that Sam hasn't heard there before.

"I --"

Benny's nail catches on his skin again, same place, and Sam's words die in his throat. "You?" he prompts.

He sounds closer than before, and Sam opens his eyes, turns to see Benny sitting a good foot away from him. It's farther than Sam was expecting, but a hell of a lot closer than he was a few minutes ago, practically welded to the passenger door.

Sam swallows and levels him with a stare, steady as he can manage. "You didn't answer my question."

Benny searches his eyes for a moment before edging forward. "All right," Benny concedes, amiable as ever.

Sam blinks once at the easy acquiescence and then, without warning, Benny's _tongue_ is on his _jaw_ , this wet touch that's somehow hot enough to feel warm against Sam's overheated skin. Frozen in shock, Sam listens while Benny breathes him in, breath run ragged and shuddering audibly in his chest. Benny's face drops away and ends up pressed to Sam's shoulder, mouth spread open against his biceps. When he sighs, Sam doesn't quite manage to hide the resulting shudder. "You got any idea how good you smell, Sam?" Without giving Sam time to respond, Benny nudges his nose up against heated muscle, trails his mouth over to lick the damp underarm of Sam's t-shirt. "Any idea what you _taste_ like?"

Sam slams his eyes closed against the disorienting, hot surge of want that tugs low in his belly, tries to ignore the way his dick twitches and thickens in his jeans, already starting to press uncomfortably at the zipper. He swallows, throat clicking dryly. "You saying what I think you're saying?"

Benny trails his mouth up Sam's shoulder to the sweaty hollow at the base of his throat, gives another toe-curling lick that makes Sam choke on a whimper, another to chase the taste. "Darlin', I know you can be a little slow on the uptake, but ain't no way you didn't know," he says, like that's all the explanation Sam needs.

A little caught up on the endearment, it takes Sam a moment to respond.  "So you --"

"Want this?" Benny sets blunt teeth to Sam's jaw and bites down gently, holds him long enough to stroke his tongue over the stubble there. "Bad," he agrees, and slides a hand into Sam's lap, not quite touching his dick but close enough that it makes Sam _ache_.

"Fuck," Sam says, low whine building in his throat. " _Fuck_."

"This okay?"

"Are you fucking --" Sam cuts off, laughing breathlessly. He pulls back far enough to reach up and smooth his fingertips over Benny's temple, press an open palm to his face. He grins, elated. "God, yes, can you --" If this is happening, Sam wants it to be in a bed, wants to be able to do it again right after. He wants to get them home, wants to take Benny to his room and not come out for a week, but.

"Shit. Shit, we're supposed to be getting fucking ice cream. And _pie_."

"Dean'll get over it," Benny says. Sam gives him a look and Benny sighs. "Or not. Ain't nothin' he can do 'bout it either way."

Sam nods and leans forward to press his lips to Benny's, quick and slick with sweat and not a little bit warm. Reluctantly, he pushes the vampire back to the passenger side with a hand on his shoulder, starts the car, puts her in drive.

"Drive fast," Benny says, a lazy, relaxed drawl that Sam put there. Sam curls sweaty palms around the wheel and does.


End file.
